Twas a holy mystery In the days of chivalry. More than pageant was the Rite In the sight of clod and knight. Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, Faith in self and faith in God; Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- Gone the things that meaning gave "With the old world to the grave."

1911.

Knightly faith was born to fade: Now the Rite is masquerade. Now a cockney paladin Winds a penny horn of tin. Where in reverence heads were bowed Surges now a careless crowd; "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools" Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- Gone the things that meaning gave "With the old world to the grave."

Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, Lord of the Wind and the Rain, When we shall cease from oppressing, From all injustice refrain; When we hate falsehood and spurn it; When we are men among men. Let us have peace when we earn it-- Never an hour till then. Let us have rest in Thy garden, Lord of the Rock and the Green,

I met a friend of lofty brow-- As lofty as the laws allow. I said to him, "You'll know, I'm sure-- What's doing now in litrychoor?" Said he: "I hate the very name; I'm weary of the blooming game. I read, whenever I have time, Something by Phillips Oppenheim." "Cheer up!" said I. "What's new in Art?-- You drift around the picture mart.